I am someone who likes to be held.
So, hold me.
But my skin is sensitive and my mind is quick.
So, hold me like you mean it or I will not relax my shoulders or allow my back to fall into the mold of your torso or curl my legs to allow the natural curve of yours to flow with mine.
I will assume the way you hold me is a reflection of the way you feel about and think of me.
So, I hope you hold me tight, like your arms aren’t long enough to manage wrapping around me as many times as you want. I hope you hold me as if you never intend to let go, and that your desire for me radiates so heavily from your chest that when you pull away it feels light and cold, like you should just come back. And hold my hand while you hold me, ensure I know your feelings are real, so real that you’re trying to share them through the pulse in your thumb. I hope you hold me until you absolutely must go, and when you do separate, that you whisper something sweet in my ear before you get up. At least, that’s how I’d hold you.